Five times Dean tried to read Lord of the Rings
by charis-kalos
Summary: ... and one time Sam was sure he had. When he was twelve Sam discovered Lord of the Rings. It wasn't really Dean's thing, but every so often he would take a look at it. NOW COMPLETE.
1. June, 1995

**First – June 1995**

At twelve, Sam was addicted to the written word. When John forbade him bringing books to the breakfast table, Sam just read the cereal boxes – which led to an argument about whether he was disobeying a direct order. John said that he'd forbidden Sam from reading at the table; Sam argued that John had just told him he couldn't read _books. _Since this was before Sam became a teenager and went moody the argument was affectionate and Dean ignored it, using the distraction of the other Winchesters as a way of getting more than his share of the Lucky Charms.

So when the Winchesters packed up for a six hour drive north, Dean was glad to see that Sam had a bloody big book to read. Sam, sitting in the back seat of the Impala while his Dad and Dean talked hunt in the front, got bored pretty quickly – and a bored Sam was an annoying Sam. But today Sam just buried himself in whatever the book was and had to be prodded back to awareness when it was time for lunch.

All was well until they'd settled in the next crummy motel that was going to be their home base. Sammy was sitting on a bench outside, within Dean's line of sight, of course, reading while John researched and Dean cooked. When Dean went to call him for dinner he didn't respond. Eventually, Dean had to go over to drag his annoying little pain in the ass brother back to eat. Which was when he found out that Sam had stopped reading and started crying.

Dean might tease 'Samantha' about being a girl, but he knew that Sam always did his best to imitate his big brother in everything, and that included not crying unless he was really sick or badly injured. So there was no way he was leaving Sam to cry without finding out why. When Sam refused to answer his questions, Dean sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, right in Sammy's personal space, and told Sam he wasn't moving until he got an answer.

"gndlfjstdiednmra"

"Okay, that made _no _sense at all. Wanna try again in English?"

"Gandalf just died in Moria."

"Okay, that's _still_ not English. Who the hell is Gandalf, how did he die and what is Moria? Or is Moria a she? Gandalf died _in _her? Kinky!"

"No!" Sam stared at Dean as if he was something disgusting, probably slimy. "_The Lord of the Rings!_ This book! Gandalf just died!"

"This is about a book?" Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. "Dude, I thought you were sick or something. How old _are_ you? It's just a story. Now put it away and come and eat."

But later that night, when Sam was asleep and John was out hunting, Dean picked up the book. He wanted to see what this book that made Sam cry was all about. But five pages in he had fallen asleep over the anthropology of hobbits and when he woke up he decided life was just too short to read _Lord of the Rings._


	2. December, 1997

**Second – December 1997**

It was looking like a lousy Christmas. Another crappy motel room. John away on a hunt. And Sammy in pain and bored out of his mind because he'd been hit in the head by a baseball in the park and the ER doctor said he had a Grade 2 concussion, complete with headache, blurred vision and dizziness. Since Sam hadn't lost consciousness the doctor had let the brothers go home, as long as Dean promised to watch Sam to make sure that none of the symptoms got worse and bring him back in next day if they hadn't got better. It was Christmas Eve, after all.

Sam's usual practice when sick was to curl up in bed with a book. Sadly, that cure-all didn't work when the illness was concussion. He'd tried to sneak some reading in, squinting in an attempt to fix the blurred vision, but Dean, already blaming himself for letting Sammy get injured (and by some stupid kids!) was watching him like a hawk, or like an over-protective, hovering, big brother. Sammy couldn't read, music and TV made his head hurt worse, his dad wasn't there and there was nothing Dean could do. Until the third time he turned around and found Sam peering at a book. Then inspiration struck and he offered to read the book _to_ Sam.

When Sam handed said book over Dean began to regret his offer.

"_Lord of the Rings_? Again? Dude, how many times have you read this?"

"This is the third. I read it once a year. Deal with it." Sammy was snarky and Dean honestly couldn't blame him. It really was going to be a crappy Christmas.

"Okay, but I gotta tell you, if I ever actually meet a hobbit I'm gonna to waste him."

"How do you know it's about hobbits?" Sam peered suspiciously at him.

"Dude, everyone knows it's about hobbits. Just lie back and close your eyes."

Fortunately for Dean's 'good brother' resolution, the part that Sam was up to didn't include hobbits. It did include an elf and a dwarf, but they were in the middle of battle having a competition about which of them could kill more of the enemy. Dean even found himself enjoying some passages, despite the ye-olde language:

_The elf was whetting his long knife. There was for a while a lull in the assault, since the attempt to break in through the culvert had been foiled._

'_Twenty-one!' said Gimli._

'_Good!' said Legolas. 'But my count is now two dozen. It has been knife-work up here.'_

By the time Sam had dosed off half-an-hour later Dean was starting to get into it. He kept reading for a while, he had to stay awake to check on Sam anyway. Even when some hobbits turned up, eating and smoking, Dean kept going. He was starting to think that he might even finish the book when about 3 am John Winchester snuck in with presents and the book was ditched in favour of helping him decorate the room without waking Sam.

It was, in the end, a very good Christmas.


	3. June, 1999

_**Author's Note: **__Okay, this entry just grew. The story was meant to be a short and snappy series of six, and I thought I knew exactly where it was going to end, but the journey has got more complicated. Maybe I've been inspired by the fact that Season Two has just come out on DVD in Australia and Season One has been re-released with the extras we Region 4 people missed out on first time round. That has made me very happy, but means that Supernatural is taking up more of my brain than I really have free. And this series has gone a bit mad._

**Third - June, 1999**

He had managed to break his left leg in six places. Two of the fractures were compound. He'd also knocked himself around a fair bit, sprained a wrist, cracked a couple of ribs, but it was his left leg that was the trouble. Surgery had gone on for hours, and now he was being told that the leg would need to be in traction for a month.

That was a problem. A month gave the hospital time to discover that "Dean Kennedy's" medical insurance wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Dean felt like an idiot. He'd fallen off a frickin' cliff! Admittedly, he'd been dodging the prurient ghost of a late high school principal who haunted the lookout attacking parking teenagers, but even so – he'd known the cliff was there, he should have realised that the spirit was going to try and send him over it. He'd been so busy trying to keep himself and his salt-loaded shotgun between the spirit and the Dawson and Joey look-alikes it was after that he hadn't noticed that the cliff had a piece taken out of it. Trying to lure the spirit away from the kids he'd taken a step back - onto nothing.

The teenagers, scared out of the few brain cells they shared, had taken off and Dean had to wait until his dad finished the salt and burn and came looking for him. That had taken several hours, since the principal had been buried on the other side of town from the area he'd chosen to haunt, and John had gone from the cemetery to the motel expecting Dean to meet him there. Those hours of waiting had done nothing for Dean's leg. The doctors had managed to put it all back together, but they were being pretty serious about keeping it immobile and weighted. When Dean had suggested crutches, even a wheelchair, the chief surgeon had laughed.

"Son, I spent eight hours of my life making sure you keep that leg. At this point I feel about as attached to it as you are. If you don't mind I'd like to keep an eye on it."

Dean couldn't tell the man that, actually, he did mind. The guy had saved his leg, and life without it was literally inconceivable. Fortunately, he hadn't known anything about the risk of losing it until it was over; he'd been unconscious when his father found him and hadn't really surfaced again until the day after the operation. But he could tell by looking at them that John and Sam had both lived through every minute of that uncertainty in agony. John had more lines around his eyes and mouth than he'd had three days ago; and Sam looked like something that had been left out in the rain. Both of them seemed absolutely horrified at his suggestion that they should get the hell out of Dodge.

"Dean, you heard the doctor. You need to keep that leg still. Better here than anywhere else."

"But the insurance …"

"That's my problem. You concentrate on your leg; I'll take care of everything else."

Sam didn't say anything. He just sat silently, head down, as close to Dean's bed as was physically possible without actually getting on it. At sixteen he was pretty quiet, unless he was having one of the screaming, shouting arguments with John that made Dean feel sick to his stomach, but he usually said _something._ An absolutely silent Sam was unusual. When John went to get them all coffee, Dean called him on it.

"Come on, Sammy, show me that sunny smile. How am I going to get special treats from the nurses if you don't charm them with the puppy dog eyes?"

That made Sam laugh, although his chuckle broke a little in the middle. "You've never needed my help in charming nurses."

"Well, my charm is formidable, that's true. And it'll work on the younger ones. But getting the motherly types to bring me snacks between meals, that needs Sammy charm all the way."

It wasn't really working. Sam's eyes were still looking much too big for his face, were still filled with pain and sorrow and fear. Dean tried again.

'Look, Sam, I get that I scared you and I'm sorry. But I'm fine. Still here, still with both legs attached. There's nothing to worry about."

"I should've been there." Sammy muttered so low, staring down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap, that Dean wasn't sure at first that he'd heard.

'What?"

Sam looked up, big brown eyes slowly filling. For a moment he stayed silent, and then the torrent of words flowed.

"I should've been there, Dean! I could have helped. I could have warned you what Snyder was doing. Even if you'd still gone over the cliff, I could've gone for help. You lay there, alone, for three frickin' hours! I should've been there with you. Come on, Dean, I'm sixteen. I'm part of this family. Why can't you let me have your back? I've been training for years; I've been on hunts before; you don't need to always protect me. I should've been there!"

"Sam…"

"What if you'd died?" Sam's voice broke. "Dean, what if you hadn't come back?" He dropped his head again, mumbling into his hands, "I need you, Dean."

Dean rubbed his hand over his face, trying to work out what to say. When Sam started talking he _really _started talking. Dean decided to pretend he hadn't heard the last bit. After all, he _wasn't_ dead, he _had_ come back, and they didn't need to talk about what Sam would have done without him. Personally, Dean thought that Sam would have done just fine. Sam had outside interests, things beyond his family and the hunt. Dean didn't. For Dean there was Dad and there was Sam and that was it. But that was something else that didn't need to be discussed. So he went back to the beginning of Sam's freak-out.

'Look, it wasn't about protecting you. I know you're capable; hell, you're better with a knife than I am! But it was meant to be a simple salt and burn. It didn't need all three of us and you'd done your bit when you figured out who we were after and found his grave. I just figured that one of us should get a good night's sleep. And it _was_ simple, until I decided to walk off a cliff. This is my fault, not yours, not Dad's. Mine."

"Well, you'd have been found a lot quicker if Dad had gone straight to the lookout instead of back to the motel."

Damn. Dean might have known that, if he wasn't going to blame himself, Sam was somehow going to find a way to blame John for this. He wasn't sure which he wanted less; a weepy Sam filled with guilt over his own failings, or a pissed-off Sam filled with anger over John's.

"For the last time, it was no one's fault. Hunting's a rough gig, you know that. Sometimes we get hurt. That's it, end of story. But I won't have you blaming Dad for any of this and I sure as hell won't have you blaming yourself. Now, if I'm going to be stuck in this room for a month we're going to have to think of ways for me not to go stir crazy."

For the moment that worked. John came back with three coffees, and he and Sam started thinking of "ways to keep Dean amused". Suggestions included driving the Impala into the ward so Dean could make sure his baby wasn't missing him too badly, and convincing Christina Aguilera that the "Dean Kennedy" at Black Rock Memorial was a little kid with cancer whose dying wish was to meet her. By the time Sam was finally, forcefully, ejected from Dean's room and sent to get some sleep he looked a little less like 'orphan puppy in the rain' and Dean was able to lie back and let some of the pain show. He really was feeling like crap. Next time he'd do the salting and burning and his Dad could do the cliff-top patrolling. No spirit was going to trick John Winchester into walking over a cliff.

The next morning Sam was back with a Dean care package. In among the auto magazines and candy and _Preacher _comics and beer hat was a tattered paperback. Dean looked at it with suspicion.

"Why is this here?"

"Well, you're stuck in this room for a month. I thought it might give you time to read some quality literature."

"_The Lord of the Rings_ is not quality literature. It's a cult for geeks who think that speaking elvish will help them get laid. By the way, they're wrong."

"Hey, what else have you got to do? One month, in this bed. Trapped. Imprisoned. Incarcerated. Caged …"

"Bitch."

"Jerk. Anyway, this time, skip the prologue. Just go straight to chapter one."

"What do you mean, _this time_? _You_ are the _Lord of the Rings_ reading geek, not me. _I _am the reader of awesome comics," and Dean settled down with _Preacher._

Several nights later, up-to-date with the travels of Jesse Custer, bored out of his mind, and unable to sleep, Dean reluctantly reached for the book beside his bed. By Dean's count, Sam had read all 1138 pages of this thing five times. Maybe reading it would give him some insight into what went on in his little brother's freaky brain.

One chapter in, and Dean found that one of the hobbits was called Sam. Why had he never discovered that before?; there were years of teasing in it. The hobbit even sounded a bit like Sam.

'_Well, I don't know,' said Sam thoughtfully. He believed he had once seen an Elf in the wood, and still hoped to see more one day. Of all the legends that he had heard in his early years such fragments of tales and half-remembered stories about the Elves as the hobbits knew had always moved him most deeply._

Dean settled down to read more. His leg was hurting and he needed the distraction, and he made it halfway through chapter six before he found himself reading what even Tolkien admitted was nonsense:

_Hey dol! Merry dol! Ring a dong dillo!_

_Ring a dong! Hop along! Fal lal the willow!_

_Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!_

"Ring a dong dillo? Give me a break!"It was five am, his leg was really, _really,_ hurting, and nonsense nursery rhymes just weren't doing it for him. He rolled over and tried to sleep.

_**There was pain: fire in his leg; there were voices talking over his head, infection, need to get his temperature down, not unusual with compound fractures, we're doing the best we can; there was his Dad's voice, hold on, son, just hold on, keep fighting; there was a glimpse of Sam, white, in tears, scared; someone was scaring Sam; he needed to protect him; why couldn't he move?; why couldn't he speak?; needed to keep his eyes open; then there was pain, more pain, more voices, amputation, sacrifice the leg to save him, Sam crying, his Dad crying? John Winchester didn't cry; more voices, another four hours, we can give him that, then we'll need to operate; Sam's voice, come on Dean, come back, please come back; Sam pleading; Sam needing him; had to come back; had to find Sam; I'm coming, Sam.**_

He opened his eyes, slowly. Someone had weighted his eyelids down while he slept; it took a while to raise them. He was lying down, staring up at a ceiling, white. He turned his head, slowly. He had the sense that it had been a long time since his body had obeyed him. John Winchester was sleeping in a chair beside the bed. He looked grey, with huge bruises under his eyes. Sammy, all lanky sixteen-year-old length of him, was curled up in the chair beside him, head in his Dad's lap. Dean didn't even know how Sam was managing to fit on that chair. Sam's eyes were red-rimmed and he looked as though he'd lost weight. Dean opened his mouth, tried to speak. His throat was beyond sore; all he could do was croak. But that was enough. Both of them were upright, on their feet, bending over him.

"Dean? How're you feeling, buddy?"

"Truck? Run Over? Me?"

"What?"

"Cement? Truck? Squished Me?"

Then Sam was laughing and crying and talking all at once. "No, Dean, it was an infection. Your leg got infected. No trucks."

"Feels. Like. A Truck."

John was smiling down at him. "No, just an infection. Took a while to get it under control, but you're fine now. You're going to be fine."

Things were coming back to him.

"Leg? Attached?"

The colour drained out of his Dad's face. "Yes, both legs attached. You're going to be fine. You thirsty? They said you could have some ice chips when you woke up."

"Yes. Please."

Sam got them for him; put them in Dean's mouth, one by one, as though Dean was a baby, while John went for the doctor. Then there were tests, and exams, and lots of drugs for the pain. It took another week before Dean was fully awake, fully conscious. Whenever he woke during that week his Dad and Sam were there, sitting by his bed. They'd take it in turns to get food, coffee, go to the bathroom down the hall. He'd overhear John trying to get Sam to leave, get some sleep in a bed. Winchester stubbornness had met Winchester stubbornness: Sam never went. Whenever Sam thought Dean was asleep he held his hand. Sometimes Dean was asleep; sometimes he wasn't. He didn't think his Dad was fooled.

Eight weeks after the 'simple' salt and burn the Winchesters left Black Rock. Dean never found out how his Dad had worked the insurance. The chief surgeon told Dean to take good care of his leg; it was some of his finest work. Two of the ICU nurses, older, motherly types, kissed Sam. One of the ICU nurses, much younger and hotter, kissed Dean.

The Impala was loaded up with everything Dean had acquired over the past couple of weeks. Once Sam had decided that it was okay to leave Dean's room, once Dean felt well enough to be crabby and bored, Sam had scoured the town for things for a daily Dean package. Dean wasn't going to tell Sam, but he was planning on keeping all of them. They filled a duffle: comics; model cars; the beer hat; an Impala key-ring. He might never look at anything in the bag again, but everything in it meant 'Sam' to him and as long as there was room in the Impala for them they were staying.

The tattered paperback of _Lord of the Rings_ he gave back to Sam: "Here, you've only read it five times. I wouldn't want to deprive you of it before you get your money's worth."

Sam huffed – but took it anyway.


	4. February, 2001

_**Author's note: **__I realised something as I wrote this. Although I've given Sam concussion and now pneumonia, and Dean a broken leg that became infected, none of these injuries and illnesses has had supernatural causes. Well, Dean broke his leg because he was being shepherded over a cliff by the spirit of a High School Principal, but that could have happened to anyone. I do enjoy the mythology, the horror/fantasy elements, of __Supernatural__, just as I enjoyed them on __Buffy__ and __Angel__. But, as with those two shows, I guess I'm really in it for the relationships and the emotion. So, some more angst. Two chapters to go, getting angstier and angstier, and possibly longer and longer. _

**Fourth - February, 2001**

"Is something on your brother's mind? Could he be worrying about something?"

"Like what?"

"Well, I know he's very ambitious academically. Was he disappointed with his SATs? Is he stressing about college acceptances?"

"He aced the SATs." _And he doesn't need to worry about being accepted by a college because he's not going to go to college._

"Then … Dean, you know I don't want to pry into your family, but could Sam be missing your father?"

The man sitting across the table could have been sent straight from central casting as 'trustworthy, small town doctor'. In his fifties, dark brown hair greying at the temples, clean shaven, bright blue eyes, a low, steady voice, the doctor was the sort of man that most people trust on sight. Dean didn't trust _anyone_ on sight, but over the past few months this man had earned his trust. So rather than responding to the question with outrage he answered it honestly.

"Sam knows how important Dad's job is, Doc. He understands why Dad needs to be away."

"And he has you. I know how close you two are." Doc smiled at him and then looked down into his mug as though he could read the riddles of the universe in his coffee. It was a habit of his that Dean had had to get used to, Doc's occasional withdrawal into deep thought and coffee-reading, although it had driven him almost mad when what Doc had been pondering in his coffee mug were ways to save Sam's life. Now he waited for a few minutes, let Doc do his thing, and then spoke.

"Look, why all the questions? Is there anything wrong with Sam?" _There can't be anything wrong with Sam or you'd have him back in hospital, wouldn't you? I __can__ trust you, right?_

"No, not really. It's just, well, he's not bouncing back as quickly as I'd like. He hasn't regained the weight he lost and he's still too listless, but with what you've told me about his eating and sleeping, or his not-eating and not-sleeping, that's not really a surprise." More coffee gazing, and this time Dean didn't indulge him.

"But the pneumonia, Sam's over it, right? He's not still sick?" _Please don't let it be back. He was so sick; I can't bear it if he gets that sick again._

"No, no, that's gone. His lungs are clear; if they weren't I'd have him readmitted in a second, you know that." Doc looked up from his coffee and smiled reassuringly. "Dean, don't look so worried. I would have hoped that Sam had more energy by now, but we both need to remember how sick he was. It's no surprise he's taking his time and I need to stop being so impatient. Occupational hazard, I guess; once I cure a patient I want him to reward me by being one hundred percent well immediately. My problem, not Sam's."

Dean tried to smile back, but it was hard. The whole thing was still so recent: Sam's cold that never seemed to get better; the call to tell him that Sam had collapsed at school; the diagnosis of pneumonia; the pleural effusions that needed to be drained. If Dean never saw another tube coming out of his little brother's chest it would be too soon. The pneumonia had attacked Sam's body with an aggression that would have done the most pissed-off spirit proud: acute respiratory distress syndrome and sepsis had put Sam in ICU on a ventilator. John had been around for that, leaving a hunt unfinished in response to Dean's frantic call after Doc had warned him about the possible damage that the sepsis could do to Sam's heart. Dean had been glad to have him there, but he hadn't been able to look his Dad in the eyes, afraid that he would see disappointment in them. John had left a healthy Sam in Dean's care and Dean had failed him, failed them both.

Maybe it came from his years of experience, maybe from two months of close encounters with Dean, but Doc seemed able to read his mind. "Look, Dean, none of this is your fault. You couldn't have stopped Sam from getting sick and you did more than anyone to get him well again."

"Doc, you were the one with the drugs and the machines …" _I can protect him from anything else, can put my body between him and spirits and werewolves and wendigos, but I couldn't protect him from this, couldn't trick an illness into attacking me instead._

"Yes, but you were the one sitting by his bed, talking to him, holding his hand, willing him back. I saw you, Dean. Anyone else as sick as Sam was, well, I would have expected to have been at his funeral by now. But Sam fought back, and a lot of the strength he needed to do that came from you. Actually, now I come to think of it, maybe that's why Sam's taking his time. He came damn close to death; it's no wonder if he's freaked out by it. Maybe this listlessness is just the natural result of discovering that he's not invulnerable. He wouldn't be the first eighteen year old male to whom that came as a shock."

Dean smiled absently. Sammy knew he wasn't invulnerable, a lesson painfully learned over the years in broken bones and bites and swipes from claws. That wasn't the problem. But he knew that Doc was doing his best to comfort him.

"Anyway, I'd better go before Alice sends out a search party. Thanks for the coffee." Doc stood up, looking around for his bag.

"Thanks for stopping by. I know it's out of your way …"

"Don't mention it. You make good coffee – no hardship to drop in for a cup on my way home." The doctor headed for the door, before stopping and looking back. "Seriously, Dean, try not to worry. The pneumonia really is gone; Sam really is getting better."

"I know." _But I almost lost him. How can I not worry?_

As soon as the doctor had left, Dean went to check on Sam, taking the stairs three at a time. Sam was in the room they shared, lying on the bed by the window. The tiny house had two bedrooms, but even when John was away hunting the boys shared one. Dean didn't sleep right without Sam in the other bed, one reason among many that he hadn't bothered to come home when Sam was in the hospital. Sam was propped up with pillows and he had a book, but he wasn't reading. Doc was right, he was still too thin. And the way he was staring out the window; this wasn't Dean's active, energetic baby brother, who turned even the apparent passivity of reading into breathless activity with his focus and intensity. _I almost lost him. Maybe, somehow, in some way, I did._

The kids came round the next day. There were two of them: a red-headed girl, attractive in a low-key, brainy way that Dean knew would have appealed to Sam; and a boy who looked Italian and sounded English. Maybe Australian. Some accent that made phrases like 'Right, Guv' and 'You're nicked' float through Dean's head. He'd seen them both around at the hospital; they'd been among the many who had left cards and flowers. Dean had managed to convince John to let the family stay in the one place for Sam's senior year, John and Dean coming and going as needed, and in the six months before he got sick Sam had managed to make a fair number of friends. These two had obviously been among them.

Sam had made it down the stairs and was spending the day lying on the couch, staring out of the lounge room window, rather than lying on his bed, staring out of the bedroom window. Dean decided to see that as progress, although it worried him that Sam showed no interest in the knock on the door. But he seemed to perk up when Dean ushered the pair into the room.

"Hey, guys! Good to see you."

"Sam!" The red-head sped to the couch, bent down and kissed him on the cheek. "Man, have we missed you! It's so good to see you without tubes in you!"

"Yeah, dude. Those machines were creepy!" The boy, who had followed more slowly, punched Sam lightly in the shoulder.

"Do you two want some coffee?" Sam offered. "Dean makes great coffee."

"… for an American?" the boy grinned. Dean, who had been standing watching, stiffened, but before he could say anything Sam and the girl both turned mock-angry faces on the boy. In return, the boy shrank back from them in apparent fear. "What did I say? Everyone knows Americans can't make coffee. Come on, the peak of the American coffee experience is Starbucks!"

"Yeah, Robert, because Australians are so well known for their coffee!"

"Hey, Australians didn't let Italians into the country without espresso machines. It's how my family got in. Australians _know_ good coffee."

"Whatever, man. Okay, ignoring the bigoted wombat, I'd like some coffee, if it's not too much trouble.' The girl really did have a nice smile.

"Me too," Sam smiled at Dean as well. "And make some for the bigoted wombat, too, please, Dean. We need to cure him of his habit of sneering at our coffee."

Dean smiled back. This was the liveliest he'd seen Sam for a while and for that he would forgive Robert anything. The open plan of the house meant that he could hear the conversation as he made the coffee. They pair were catching Sam up on the minutiae of high school gossip, deadly dull to Dean but apparently fascinating to the three of them. Then the conversation moved to plans for next year, to colleges. Robert wanted to do pre-med; the girl, Alison, was talking liberal arts colleges. Then the focus moved to Sam.

"Sam, what do you want to do? Where did you apply?" _Damn, I should have helped Sam think of a cover story; something to explain why the school's probable valedictorian isn't going to go to college._

"Pre-law. Stanford. Columbia. Cornell. A few others." _What! Sam applied to colleges. Sam can't __go__ to college._

"Man, if I didn't like you so much I'd hate you. Between your SAT scores and your GPA any of them'll grab you. Hell, they'll probably bribe _you_ to accept _them._ I'm expecting rejection letters with a single line in the middle of the page: don't make us laugh."

Sam laughed. "It won't be that bad, Alison. I hear colleges write very sensitive rejection letters these days."

The red-head grabbed a cushion and feinted a toss at Sam's head. "Good thing you're still sick, man."

In the kitchen area, Dean froze. Sam could _not_ have applied to colleges. He couldn't _go_ to college. Maybe he was just applying because that's what everyone else did. He couldn't really be expecting to go.

"Dean? Dean! Coffee ready?"

"What? Oh, sorry, yeah, coffee coming up." _We'll talk about it later. Sam knows what we do, he knows that he can't leave. It's a cover story, just another cover story, like all the others. It doesn't matter what he says._ Dean brought in the three mugs, putting them on the table in front of Sam, and going back for sugar and milk. Sam served his guests, apparently knowing their coffee preferences without needing to ask: black for Robert; white with one for Alison. These were his friends; he knew them. _If he goes to college he'll make friends there too. Stop it – he's not going to college._

"Man, this is good coffee." Robert was staring at Dean in astonishment. He put his mug down, leapt to his feet, and bowed to Dean. "I acknowledge the first American I've ever met who can make a decent cup." There was a gleam in his eye that it took Dean a second to recognize. The kid was flirting with him. _Sorry, dude. You're cute, but you're just not my type._

"Our Dad practically lives on the stuff." Sam was smiling meaningfully at Dean; he'd picked up on Robert's flirting. "He'll take his caffeine any way he can but he does prefer it like this."

"Enough with the coffee talk. It's good, but this is better," said Alison, rummaging in her bag and pulling out a parcel. "Sam, this is for you, from me and Robert and Kath and, well, everyone who wants you back at school so the horrible Oliver isn't valedictorian."

"Hey, the horrible Oliver has been around since freshman year. I've only been here since July."

"Yeah, but the horrible Oliver is a creep." Robert said cheerfully. "You don't make us feel that the rest of us are lesser beings who should bow down and worship your dizzy intellect. Anyway, open your present."

Dean was back in the kitchenette, so he didn't see what Sam unwrapped. He did hear the confusion in Sam's voice."

"Thanks guys, but …"

"We know. Read the inscription."

He could hear the smile in Sam's voice. "Oh. Thanks. I'm trying."

"Well, we need to go," Alison put her mug down purposefully and stood up. "Some of us have homework."

"Yeah, which some of us are going to blow off." Robert stood up, too. "Get better, Sam. Dean – great to finally meet you properly. Thanks for the coffee." Another kiss for Sam from Alison, an awkward one-armed hug from Robert, and the two were off, leaving Sam looking more awake than he had for days. Dean came to the collect the mugs. "What did they give you?"

Sam handed it over: a book, obviously. _The Lord of the Rings._ "What? But you've …"

"I know. You need to read the inscription."

**Dear Sam. To replace your existing copy which, let's face it, is falling apart! Please get better and come back to school. We miss you. Lots and lots of love, Alison, Robert, Kath, Kinsie, Pete, Joey.**

"Okay." Dean put the book aside. "Sam, we need to talk." _If I don't talk to him about this college stuff he might bring it up with Dad and they'll have one of their patented Winchester versus Winchester shouting matches. I couldn't cope with that at the moment._

"Isn't that usually my line?" Dean couldn't tell if Sam was trying to avoid the subject, or if his apparent lack of interest was genuine.

'What was that stuff about applying to colleges?"

"What do you mean? You knew I'd applied to college." Sam seemed completely nonplussed by the question. "I mean, surely you knew. You must've."

"No, I didn't know! I didn't think you'd be that stupid. What's the point in applying to colleges if you won't be going?"

"Why wouldn't I go?" Sam was starting to look angry. _Great, __now__ he has some energy._

"Because you have a job to do here!" _If you leave I won't be able to protect you._

"A job I never chose."

"That doesn't matter. It's the family business; you, me, Dad, saving people, hunting things. This is what we do." _We're a family, Sammy. You can't leave the family._

"Well, maybe I don't want to do it, not forever. I want a life of my own; there's nothing wrong with that."

"A life as what? A lawyer? Damnit, Sammy, we do good, we fight evil. And you want to give that up?" _That night you were so sick, they didn't think you were going to live 'til morning, I thought I'd lost you. I __can't__ lose you, Sammy._

"I wouldn't be in school the whole year. I could come back for holidays, help you and Dad then."

"Oh, great. So we just tell any evil we meet to wait, please, 'til Sam comes home for Thanksgiving?" _There aren't that many holidays. You'll be alone, unprotected,_ _for most of the year._

"You and Dad don't really need me. You can get along without me."

"That's not the point. You have a responsibility." _I could never get along without you._

"Yeah, I do! I have a responsibility to live my own life."

"I can't believe that you're being this selfish. Doesn't loyalty mean anything to you?" _Don't do this, Sammy. Please don't do this. _

Dean knew it was a low blow, accusing Sam of selfishness. But he was getting desperate. Sammy seemed serious about this college thing. He'd though he was willing to use any trick in the book to get Sam to reconsider. But now Sam's eyes were suspiciously bright, and he was looking like a kicked puppy. _Great, Dean, just great. You know the kid's still fragile and you decide to scream at him._

"Look, Sammy, this isn't getting us anywhere. How about we take a break? I need to do a grocery run, anyway. What do you feel like eating?"

"Nothing," Sam mumbled, turning away. "Anything. I don't care."

After leaving the house, Dean sat at the wheel of the Impala for a few minutes before starting the engine, trying to pull himself back together. _Shit. Shit, shit, shit. You start this discussion to get the whole thing out of the way so Sam and Dad won't yell at each other over it, and you end up yelling at him. _Dean realized that his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself down, as though he was in the middle of a hunt and the adrenalin surge was getting dangerous. _It will be okay. Dad will deal with it. Sammy can't leave; we couldn't protect him if he left. Dad won't let him leave. It'll be okay._

By the time Dean had returned with groceries Sam seemed to have recovered. He even seemed to be trying to make up for the argument; coming to sit in the kitchenette while Dean cooked the hamburgers that he had decided on for dinner, and even managing to finish his share of the meal for the first time in weeks. By mutual consent they avoided the question of college. Dean was sure that John would sort it all out. He didn't know what Sam was thinking and for once he didn't want to know.

Dean had hoped that after eating a normal meal Sam would manage to have a normal night's sleep; but when his bladder woke him at about two he saw that Sam's bed was empty. The light was on downstairs and the house was peaceful, so Dean went to the bathroom before tracking his brother down.

Sam was back lying on the couch, his new copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ in his hands. He looked up and smiled as Dean entered.

"Can't sleep?"

"No. Thought I'd try to read myself to sleep."

Dean reached over and took the book from his hands. 'You still reading this once a year?"

"I guess so."

"Which would make this, what, the seventh time through? I don't get it."

Sam looked thoughtful, eyes huge and deep. "I guess I find it comforting. Maybe it's because we move around so much, but it's good to have some things that don't change." Sam smiled at Dean. "Like you. It's kind of my literary equivalent of you."

Dean sank onto the arm of the couch, looking down at the little brother who held Dean's heart in his hands. 'I'm not sure that's a compliment," he tried to growl, but knew that Sam could see right through the assumed toughness. _He won't leave. He can't. _"Hey, you remember that Christmas you got concussion? Four, five years ago?"

Sam laughed. "I was being such a creep. You were trying so hard to take care of me and I basically threw everything back in your face."

"Hey," Dean defended Sam from himself. "You were what, fourteen; you had concussion and you were in pain; Dad was away; it was looking like a crappy Christmas."

"And you read me to sleep and when I woke up Dad was there and it was Christmas."

"Want to try it now?" Dean offered. _Let me help you, Sammy._

Sam's eyes were again suspiciously bright. "Think you can cope? Hobbits, Dean, remember the hobbits."

"I can cope with anything you can throw at me," Dean boasted. "Bring it on."

"Well, the page's marked." Sam said, lying down again and closing his eyes.

Dean settled himself more comfortably on the arm of the couch and started:

_For the few hours of daylight that were left they rested, shifting into the shade as the sun moved, until at last the shadow of the western rim of their dell grew long, and darkness filled all the hollow. Then they ate a little, and drank sparingly. Gollum ate nothing, but he accepted water gladly._

Dean read for almost an hour, until Sam had been breathing evenly for long enough that Dean was sure that the sudden silence wouldn't wake him. Then Dean kept reading silently, partly because he found himself unexpectedly drawn by the character of Faramir; mainly because of Sam's confession that he found it comforting. A weird security blanket; but then Sam had always been a weird kid. _A weird kid who belongs with us, with this weird family. He'll never turn into Joe College. _And for the rest of the night Dean kept reading; watching over his brother; and praying to any god that might listen that Sam would always stay close, stay where Dean could look out for him.

Next day Sam took the book back, and Dean didn't bother to read any further. Not until September.


	5. September, 2001

_**Author's Note: **Second last chapter! One to go. Hope you enjoy._

**Fifth - September, 2001**

Some things were literally unbelievable. They were just so impossible, so far from the realms of 'ordinary' and 'normal', that the human brain couldn't wrap itself around them. For most people, such things included demons and werewolves and shtrigas and wendigos and vampires. No place for monsters in their safe, neat, universe. Even when the evidence of the existence of such beings was right in front of them they usually managed to find some other, non-supernatural, explanation.

Dean Winchester had no problem with believing in such things. Dean's categories of 'ordinary' and 'normal' were full of the things that went bump in the night, along with researching them, hunting them, carrying the weapons to deal with them. For Dean the category of 'unbelievable' was made up of other things. 'Unbelievable' was settling down in the one place; getting a civilian job; having a 'relationship' with a woman that lasted for longer than a week. 'Unbelievable' was disobeying his father. 'Unbelievable' was not protecting his brother. And most unbelievable of all was his little brother walking out the door for good. And yet that was exactly what Sammy had done.

Sure, Sam had warned him: had said he was going to college no matter what his father and brother might say. But Dean had never really believed him. Not when he found out that Sammy had applied to colleges; not when he found that five of them had accepted him; not when he found that two of the five were offering Sam partial scholarships; not even when he found out that Stanford was giving Sammy a full ride that meant that for the first time in his life Sam wouldn't have to rely on John or Dean for money. The idea that Sam could leave, could go somewhere where Dean couldn't watch over him, protect him – it was just impossible. It couldn't happen. And so Dean had spent a happy six months dwelling in denial, while the fights between his father and his brother got longer and louder and more intense.

Until the final argument, a few days before Stanford expected its first years to arrive on campus. Sam had asked John if he or Dean would drive him there; John had again told Sam that he wasn't going and that was all there was to say about it; and the fight had escalated until finally John had told Sam that if he walked out that door he was never to come back, before storming out himself. And Dean had sat, frozen in a corner, unable to move, while Sam called a cab to take him to the bus station; added the last few items to the bags he'd had packed for a week; and walked out the door. Dean had sat, staring at the closed door, until it had opened again and Sammy had run back in, a whirlwind of arms and legs and too-long hair. There had been time for a single relieved thought_, he's not going,_ before Sammy had been on him, hauling him to his feet, hugging him and crying.

"I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry, but I have to do this, I have to go, I have to live my own life, I'm so sorry."

And then he was gone, the door closed again, and this time Dean could hear the sound of the taxi as it left, taking his brother, his heart, his _life_, away.

John had come home late, drunk, which told Dean that his Dad had known that Sammy wouldn't be around when he returned. It wasn't until a few days later that he worked out that John had sat in his truck outside the bus station, watching as Sam left. He didn't know whether John had had a last impulse to protect Sam, watch over him for as long as he could; or whether his Dad had been sitting there, hoping against hope that his youngest wouldn't get on the bus. Dean was just angry that his Dad had had that final glimpse. All Dean had been able to do was sit in the empty, darkening motel room, as his heart slowly broke.

Sam had called the next day, called Dean, not John, to say that he'd arrived safely. He'd called a couple of times in the week after that, letting Dean know about his roommate, his classes, reassuring Dean that he was fine, he was safe. With each call Dean felt Sammy slip further away from him, into the Joe College life that was apparently all he wanted, away from the brother who would give up his very soul for him but couldn't give him what he needed to stay. And then the calls stopped, replaced by messages that still let Dean know Sam was alright, but didn't tell him anything else.

And now John was away on a hunt and Dean was alone. Part of him had wanted to join his Dad, been pissed off when John had said he would go after the spirit alone, but it was a small part of him. He was a big, hollow shell, and nothing seemed to matter, not even hunting, not even his Dad. He knew it was wrong, strange, could recognise how out-of-character he was being, but he just didn't care. He knew John was being gentle with him, giving him the time and space his Dad thought he needed, and he couldn't be grateful, because it had been John who had told Sam never to come back. So now he wandered through the motel room, aimlessly, picking things up, putting them down, until he finally ended up sitting on the bed that had been Sam's. He'd been avoiding it all week, as though if he didn't look at it, didn't approach it, he wouldn't notice that it was empty. But now, suddenly, he wanted to be reminded that Sammy was gone, needed to have the hole in his life reinforced. So he lay down, full length, on the bed that had never, ever been his, the one furthest from the door.

Something hard was digging into his head. There was something under Sam's pillow. He reached a hand for it and pulled out a book. Of course a book. Not just any book. Sammy's second copy of _The Lord of the Rings. _He stared at it. Sam had gone to college without it. He remembered the conversation they'd had about it in February:

_Sam looked thoughtful, eyes huge and deep. "I guess I find it comforting. Maybe it's because we move around so much, but it's good to have some things that don't change." Sam smiled at Dean. "Like you. It's kind of my literary equivalent of you."_

Well, why shouldn't Sam have gone to college without it? He'd gone without Dean, after all.

Without a conscious decision Dean opened the book and, for the fifth time in his life, started reading _The Lord of the Rings._ He read for hours, one page after another, partly drawn in by the story, mainly because in some weird way this made him feel closer to Sam. Until he got to the first chapter of Book Two. Suddenly, as Frodo woke in a strange bed to find Gandalf watching over him, the whole thing was too damn close.

'_Where's Sam?' Frodo asked at length. 'And are the others all right?'_

'_Yes, they are all safe and sound,' answered Gandalf. 'Sam was here until I sent him off to get some rest, about half an hour ago.'_

'Where's Sam?' Always Dean's first question on waking. Silent, if answered instantly by Sam's presence, by puppy-dog eyes and a dimpled smile. Aloud, if Sam wasn't there. Always answered immediately by John, who knew that it outranked all other questions, even if the later questions included: What happened?; Why am I in hospital?; Are all my parts still working? First question, first impulse, check that Sam was safe. How many times had he asked that question?

… _We have been terribly anxious, and Sam has hardly left your side, day or night, except to run messages …_

A four-year-old fighting their Dad, who was trying to separate them so Sammy wouldn't catch Dean's cold. A nine-year-old sitting by a tonsillitis-infested Dean's bed, ready to run any errands Dean might have. A sixteen-year-old leaving Dean's bedside only to scour Black Rock for things to cheer him up. Anytime Dean was sick Sam had been there, beside him, leaving only to do something for him. Had Dean ever thanked him?

_At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Sam came in. He ran to Frodo and took his left hand, awkwardly and shyly. He stroked it gently and then he blushed and turned hastily away._

'_Hullo, Sam!' said Frodo._

'_It's warm!' said Sam. 'Meaning your hand, Mr. Frodo. It has felt so cold through the long nights …' _

Tiny, baby fists wrapped round his forefingers. A plump, six-year-old hand welded to his on the first day of school. A dirty ten-year-old hand with bitten nails clinging to his in comfort while John stitched a slash in Dean's side. A long, slender sixteen-year-old hand holding his whenever Sammy thought an injured Dean was asleep. An eighteen-year-old hand, bigger than his now, limp and unresisting in his grasp as he urged Sammy not to let the pneumonia beat him. How many times had he held Sam's hand? How many times had Sammy taken his?

… _not that I have had the time or the heart for much listening since we got here. But I'm getting to know some of the ways of the place.'_

"_I know what you have been doing, Sam,' said Frodo, taking his arm._

John trying to get Sam to leave Dean's hospital room, to go back to the motel, to have a decent meal, to get some sleep and Sammy, Winchester-stubborn, refusing, insisting that he wasn't tired, that he didn't need anything, that he was staying with Dean. How many times?

It was too much. There was the sound of someone sobbing and Dean realised that it was him. God, he wasn't just sobbing, he was _keening_, he sounded like the frickin' banshee they'd killed in Illinois. And it didn't matter how much noise he made because John was on a hunt and Sammy was in California and neither of them could hear him and he was alone. So for the first time since Sammy had walked out of his life Dean allowed himself to give in to the grief. The book fell to the floor and Dean curled up on Sammy's bed and cried like he hadn't in decades, cried until he fell asleep.

When he woke the next day, still on Sam's bed, he felt like he'd come through some dark tunnel, broken free of some weird imprisonment. He still missed Sam, but for the first time since Sam left he felt like 'Dean' again. And that meant he still had a job to do. He called John, found out where he was, arranged to meet him there. Then he packed up the motel room, putting all the stuff Sam had left into one bag and tucking it into the Impala's trunk.

He put _The Lord of the Rings_ in that bag, too. He felt better, but that didn't mean he wanted to encounter Frodo and Sam and their damnably loving relationship again anytime soon.


	6. September, 2007

_**Dedication: **__To __Sangerin__, whose enthusiasm for fan fiction finally got me posting; who has been reading this story despite not watching __Supernatural__; and with whom I am magnanimously still friends despite the fact that she has never read __The Lord of the Rings__ and has only watched two of the films. As Sam says to Dean: "I'll have you reading it yet."_

_**Author's Note: **__Finally__, the last chapter, the chapter that I've been working towards since the beginning. Thank you to everyone who has read and especially to those of you who have commented. I've had a great time writing; I hope you've had an equally enjoyable time reading. Comments, including suggestions for improving future stories, not only welcome but __begged__ for._

_My fellow __LOTR__-geeks will note that Dean must have watched the extended version of __The Two Towers__. Everyone else, don't worry about it._

_**Warning: **__Lots of spoilers for __The Lord of the Rings__ movie trilogy._

_**Timeline: **__No idea how this chapter fits into the timeline of Season Three, but I think it takes place between __The Magnificent Seven __and __The Kids Are Alright__, except that Dean knows that Sam is still trying to save him._

**And Finally - September, 2007**

It had been, in Winchester terms, a relatively simple job. A vengeful spirit, rather than one of the demons that had taken advantage of the opening of the Hell's Gate in Wyoming. A simple salt and burn, rather than any sort of exorcism. But the vengeful spirit had not gone quietly and had sent Dean flying into a tree.

Then, while he was still trying to gather himself, it had swiped Sam in the head with his own shovel. Once he'd regained consciousness, Sam had taken that pretty personally.

So, here they were, back in another tiny motel room in the middle of nowhere and Dean was trying to work out whether Sam needed to go to hospital, while Sam was being pretty vehement that he needed no such thing.

There had been a time when Sam would have given in to Dean for the sake of peace and quiet, and because Dean was, after all, the older brother. But ever since Sam had decided that it was his mission in life to save Dean he had become almost, well, _Dean_-like in ignoring his own injuries, along with his own needs for sleep and food. Dean sometimes wondered whether it was Sam's subtle way of punishing Dean for making the deal that had saved Sam's life and doomed Dean's soul. He'd never realised how irritating his trademark stoicism about injuries was until he'd been on the receiving end of it. How the hell was he meant to know if Sammy was really hurting if all his brother would say was, "I'm fine"?

So, once he'd cleaned the gash in Sam's head, given it the three stitches he'd decided it needed, dosed Sam with a couple of pain pills and seen him fall asleep, Dean settled in for a wakeful night. With a head wound like that he wanted to check on Sam regularly and there was really no point in sleeping between the checks.

Plus, ever since Sam had _died_ Dean had discovered whole new levels of over-protectiveness within himself, something he wouldn't have thought possible. Watching over Sam while he slept seemed like a generally good thing to do, and tonight Sammy wasn't going to be waking up to bitch at him for it.

There was a television opposite his bed and after checking that it was turned away from Sam and that the sound was down low Dean turned it on. Flicking through the channels he came across a battle scene, swords and arrows and axes and men in armour, and paused. A quick glance through the guide told him that he was watching the beginning of _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_, and that the channel was doing a marathon; _The Two Towers _and _The Return of the King _would follow.

Suddenly in Dean's mind it was 2001 again and Sam was gone and the world had fallen apart and he was reading _The Lord of the Rings_.

There were times: when Sam was taking his turn at driving the Impala and Dean had nothing to do but stare out the window; or when waiting in line for the bacon cheeseburgers that had become his default breakfast; or when Dean was cleaning weapons while Sam researched, that Dean's mind wandered down the rather strange path of wondering which was worse: Sam leaving for college; or Sam dying.

On the one hand, when Sam had left for college Dean had known that he was alive and well. Even after the phone calls and the emails stopped, Dean had been able to swing by Stanford between jobs to take a quick look at Sammy and, in later years, the beautiful blonde he was living with. He was able to indulge in big brother protectiveness whenever he liked, and it had helped to fill the hole in his chest, in his life. While Sammy lying dead – nothing could ever fill that hole.

On the other hand, Sammy lying dead had been a problem with a solution. Sure, the solution was giving up his own soul but that was a price Dean was more than willing to pay. Sam leaving, by his own choice, of his own accord – there had been nothing Dean could do about that. No solution to Sammy's absence, until John going missing, followed by Jessica's death, had sent Sammy back to the only family he had left. And no matter how glad Dean was to have Sammy back, he would never, ever have wanted that at the cost of Jessica. Losing Jessica had hurt his brother too much.

Maybe an involuntarily dead Sam was better than a voluntarily missing Sam. One he had regained after a few days. The other had been gone for four years.

During those four years, Dean had tried to avoid even thinking about _The Lord of the Rings._ It had prompted his worst ever emotional breakdown; or what had been his worst breakdown until his Dad had died and he had taken his pain and anger out on his baby. It had been hard for a while; with the movies coming out each year for three years Dean had had no way to avoid the blanket coverage. At unguarded moments he had found himself wondering whether Sam had gone to see the movies; whether Sam was still reading the book once a year; why Sam had left his copy behind when he left for college. But that way led to pain, and fear, and the possibly of losing control, and so Dean had clamped down his feelings and kept on with the job.

But now Sam was back, was here, was where he should be, sleeping in the bed next to Dean, and everything was different.

He wasn't going anywhere for the next eight hours. Maybe it was time he tried this story out in another medium.

Dean settled back against the pillows and prepared for a long night.

After the big battle scene, after the original journey of the Ring had been described in suitably ominous tones, the film started almost as slowly as the book. Happy hobbits doing happy hobbit things. The first thing that really caught his attention was the actor playing Frodo. Man, the kid had big eyes. He might be only person on earth who could compete with Sammy in the puppy-dog stakes. Maybe he and Dad should have sent Sam to Hollywood, where he could have put his eyes to use making them a fortune instead of putting them to use making Dean do anything Sammy wanted.

'Sam' looked nothing like Sam. Well, maybe the hair. Something else to tease Sam about; not only did he have a hobbit name, he also had hobbit hair.

The scene of Frodo waking in Rivendell, the scene that six years ago had had Dean in tears, was slightly different. Frodo no longer asked "Where's Sam?" on waking, and Dean found himself annoyed by the change. "Where's Sam?" was such a significant question in his life that he wanted it to retain its significance in Frodo's. But Sam still ran in and took Frodo's hand; and Gandalf still told Frodo that Sam had hardly left his side. Dean looked over at _his_ Sam, who now scarcely left Dean's side, and found himself smiling.

The movie was starting to draw him in. Dean was caught up by the fight against the cave troll, the rapid firing of arrows against the orcs, Aragorn's swordplay. He even held his breath when the cave troll speared Frodo. Sam's tears at the sight of an apparently dead Frodo, and his relief when Frodo moved, had Dean glancing over at _his_ Sam again, just to make sure that his Sam was still breathing.

Gandalf fell, and Dean remembered a twelve-year-old telling him, with tears in his eyes, that Gandalf had died in Moria. Frodo's huge eyes merged in Dean's mind with Sam's, and he smiled at the memory of the little boy who became so emotionally involved in what he was reading. Of course, Sam still became just as immersed in what he was reading, was just as emotionally invested, but now he read books in a desperate search for ways to get Dean out of his deal with the demon. Dean hoped that the day would come when Sam could go back to reading fiction.

As the film progressed Dean began to pay more attention to Boromir, a character that he had never really noticed in his occasional attempts at reading. He understood Boromir; he empathised with him, fighting to save the two younger hobbits even when full of arrows. Dean knew that feeling, that determination to protect the innocent despite the pain, that impulse to fight on for others even when his own strength was gone. Then Boromir died in Aragorn's arms: "I would have followed you, my brother. My captain. My king." Aragorn accepted Boromir's trust, Boromir's mission, took the guards from Boromir's wrists and fastened them around his own as symbol of his vow. When his year was up, would Sammy do the same: farewell Dean with a kiss; promise to continue Dean's mission of saving people; fasten Dean's amulet around his own neck? Did Dean want him to, or did he want Sammy to live the normal life he'd always sought?

Sam and Frodo hugging in the boat; Sam refusing to leave; "I made a promise, Mr Frodo. A promise." And the last line of the movie: "Sam, I'm glad you're with me." Dean glanced at _his _Sam again. Every second of every day, every fibre of his being said the same thing: "Sam, I'm glad you're with me."

There was more to this story than Dean had ever imagined. Maybe Sammy's obsession wasn't so weird, after all. Dean felt emotionally wrung out. But he wasn't going to stop watching. There was time enough to check Sam properly ("Dean, I'm fine, no concussion, just let me sleep!"), make a cup of coffee, and find his giant bag of M&Ms before he leaned against his pile of pillows to watch _The Two Towers._

There were parts of _The Two Towers_ that Dean remembered. He'd read the deadly competition between the elf and the dwarf to a concussed fourteen-year-old; and Sam and Frodo's journey with Gollum and the meeting with Faramir to an eighteen-year-old recovering from pneumonia. He laughed quietly at the reference to dwarf-tossing, and the dwarf's description of the elf as a "pointy-eared elvish princeling". That might be a good insult to toss Sam's way sometime, except that it would reveal to Sam that Dean had actually watched _Lord of the Rings._

There were other parts that Dean definitely didn't remember from his occasional reading, and when Boromir reappeared in Faramir's memories Dean sat up. The bond between the two brothers was familiar; Faramir assuring Frodo that Boromir was dead because "I know it in my heart. He was my brother." Dean could get that. Then the memory of Faramir's last day with Boromir, reclaiming a city in battle: "Remember today, little brother. Today, life is good." Two brothers together, until their father turned up, praising his firstborn, Boromir, condemning his younger son as of little use, separating the two of them, sending Boromir away.

Dean remembered a conversation with Sam almost two years earlier in Oklahoma; Sam telling Dean that he had never been good enough for their Dad, that John had always been disappointed in him: "Because I wanted to go to school and live my life, which in our whacked out family made me the freak." Was this how Sam had seen their family? Had he imagined himself the despised Faramir to Dean's loved and praised Boromir? Had Dean added to Sam's sense of rejection with his casual comments about getting the extra cookie or his angry identification as 'the good son'? "I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered to the figure in the next bed. He'd said it before and he'd say it again. "Dad was never disappointed in you, never."

Dean found the relationship between Frodo and Sam as bizarrely touching in this second movie as it had been in the first. Sam saved Frodo from giving in to the power of the Ring: "It's me. It's your Sam. Don't you know your Sam?" Sam was Frodo's comfort and companion, and Frodo recognised it: "Frodo wouldn't have got far without Sam." Dean got it; he knew that feeling; he really did.

Half the giant bag of M&Ms were gone, without Dean remembering eating any. He still had half a cup of coffee left, but it was cold. Dean made another, went to the bathroom, checked that Sam was peacefully asleep, breathing deeply, and lay down again.

Very soon _The Return of the King_ was pissing him off. How could Frodo _ever_ have thought that Sam would be stealing food; that Sam wanted the Ring? How could he have allowed Gollum to poison his mind against Sam? When Frodo told Sam "You can't help me anymore … Go home" and Sam began to cry, Dean got seriously mad. Nothing and no one in this world, or even in hell, could _ever_ have poisoned his mind against _his_ Sam, so why the hell was Frodo turning against his Sam? It wasn't right. _Shit, I'm completely identifying with a hobbit!_

But, of course, Sam didn't leave. He found Frodo apparently dead - and suddenly Dean was identifying with Sam rather than Frodo. He _knew_ that feeling: "Don't leave me here alone. Don't go where I can't follow." But Sam was luckier than Dean; Frodo wasn't dead and Sam could rescue him.

Once again, Dean forgot to drink his coffee as the story dragged him in, right up to the final scenes of Frodo's farewell. Frodo hugged Sam, kissed him on the forehead, and boarded the boat that would take him away from his friends and the world. And for the second time that night Dean thought about what would happen when his year was up. Would _his_ Sam let him go peacefully, as Sam let Frodo go? Would _his_ Sam accept that Dean had had to sacrifice himself to save Sam, as Frodo had sacrificed himself to save the Shire? Would _his_ Sam accept the gift? Frodo's last words to Sam: "You have so much to enjoy, and to be, and to do. Your part in the story will go on," and Sam returning to his wife and children, was everything Dean wanted for _his_ Sam. Surely, before the year was up, Sammy would accept it.

It was dawn by the time the last film ended. No point in sleeping now; Dean decided to go and grab some breakfast for the two of them. With any luck, Sam would never find out how Dean had spent the night. Dean definitely didn't want Sam to discover that Dean had found _The Lord of the Rings_ moving; that he'd identified with a hobbit. It would be Dean's little secret.

_D&S LOTR D&S LOTR D&S LOTR D&S LOTR D&S LOTR D&S_

If it hadn't been for a tiny slip of the tongue Dean would have got away with it.

They were on their way to Bobby's, but there was no haste, no point arriving until just before nightfall, so they stopped at a diner for a long lunch. Sam, buried in another book, was too slow in extricating himself from the Impala for Dean's taste and he looked back and yelled impatiently, "Hurry up, Samwise."

He didn't realise what he'd said, and was a little surprised at the way Sam smiled at him across the table as they sat down. Sam was looking at Dean as though Dean was, what, adorable? There was a softness in Sam's eyes that Dean didn't appreciate. He raised an enquiring eyebrow at his pain-in-the-ass little brother. Sammy smiled back.

"You read _Lord of the Rings._"

"What? No, I did not! You're the geek-boy, not me."

"Dean, you just called me 'Samwise'."

"So? I call you lots of things."

"Yeah, you've called me Samantha and Sammich and Sasquatch and Francis, you have _definitely_ called me lots of things. But you've never called me Samwise before, and the only reason you'd use that name would be if you'd read _Lord of the Rings._"

Dean decided that he had to end this, quickly. "Sam, I can promise that I have _never_ read _The Lord of the Rings._"

"Okay, then." Dean relaxed. "You've seen the movies." _Shit. Busted._ Dean stared down at his burger, avoiding his little brother's annoying smirk. As he chewed thoughtfully, a brilliant idea struck.

"So, Sam, you remember the end? Where Frodo says good-bye?"

"No," said Sam firmly, making Dean jerk his head up from his meal and eye his little brother, surprised.

"What do you mean, no? You've been reading that book for half your life, and I'm sure the movie didn't change the ending _that_ much."

He was expecting Sam to respond with a triumphant, 'so you admit you've watched the movies', but Sam just repeated his firm 'no'.

"Come on, Sam …"

"Yes, Dean, I remember the scene. I'm saying no to what you're going to say next. You're going to argue that we're in the same situation, that I have to let you go the way Sam let Frodo go, that I need to accept your sacrifice and live a long and happy life. Right? That's what you're about to argue?"

Sam knew him too well. "Well, yeah, something along those lines …"

And now little brother was angry. All softness had left his eyes; all laughter had left his face. "Dean, the situation is _completely_ different. Yes, Frodo's leaving, yes, in a sense he's dying. But he's going somewhere better. He's not going to hell! Look, I'll be Sam to your Frodo, I will, but we're nowhere near the end of the story yet."

Sammy was breathing hard, holding Dean's eyes with his own, burning Dean with his passion.

"Remember when they're on Mount Doom? Sam carrying Frodo up that mountain? Following Frodo into the Cracks of Doom? Sam grabbing Frodo's hand and telling him not to let go? That's where we are, Dean, on Mount Doom. And I'll follow you and I'll carry you and I'll hold on to you and I _won't_ let you go into that fire! And I'll be with you at the end, like Sam was for Frodo. So don't you _dare_ suggest that I should just let you die!"

Dean was silenced. It was what Sammy had said when he found out about the deal: "You're my big brother. There's _nothing_ I wouldn't do for you. And I don't care what it takes; I'm going to get you out of this." And he couldn't let Sam do that, because it would mean Sam's death. He stared back down at his suddenly unappealing lunch. His soul for Sammy's life – he still thought it was a fair trade.

At first, when he heard the sounds his brother was making, he thought Sammy was choking. Then that he was crying. It took a few moments to recognise that Sam was actually laughing, laughing until the tears came to his eyes. The last time Sam had laughed like that Dean had had a beer bottle stuck to his hand. And even then Sammy hadn't lost control like this. Sam was trying to talk, but he was laughing too hard and Dean could only catch the occasional word.

"You … Dean … Frodo … hobbit."

Okay, yeah, Dean had just totally compared himself to a hobbit.

"Well, you were the one who said you'd be Sam to my Frodo."

Sam got a little control: "I'm already Sam to your Dean; it's not that big a stretch. Hey, you're short enough."

Dean reached over and whacked his annoying little brother in the head with a menu. But Sam kept laughing, and his laughter was infectious. When was the last time Sammy had laughed like this? Not since before Dean's deal; not since before Dean had told him about John's last words. It was past time. Their waitress, with a sympathetic smile, brought over another carafe of water and Dean poured them both drinks. Maybe being busted on _Lord of the Rings_ watching was worth it to see Sammy's smile. Dean looked down at his lunch again. Good food, and a hunt lined up for later, and a smiling Sammy across the table. Today, life was good.

Sam, of course, brought it up again when they were back in the car. "So, Dean, when did you watch the movies?"

No real point in denying it now. "A couple of nights ago. There was a marathon, and I needed to be up anyway to make sure your sorry ass didn't die in your sleep."

He could sense Sam's smile. "I'll get you reading the books yet."

"No way, geek-boy. I've said it before; _Lord of the Rings_ is a cult for geeks who think that speaking elvish will help them get laid. I don't need any help there."

A few miles of companionable silence, and then Dean asked the question that had been bugging him for six years. "Why didn't you take the book with you to college? I thought it was your weird-ass security blanket?"

"What? I did take it."

"Nuh-uh. I found your copy when I was packing your things up."

"Oh," sudden comprehension in Sam's voice. "I left the _new_ copy behind. It was nice of Alison to give it to me, but I wanted the old one. I'd had it since I was twelve, it was the one you read to me from when I had concussion; it was the one I lent to you when you broke your leg. It might have been falling apart but I wanted that one." That softness was back. "I told you, it was my literary equivalent of you. Of course, I took it with me."

Dean just nodded. For some reason the idea that Sam had taken Dean's book equivalent to college was comforting. More companionable silence, then Sam spoke.

"Well, I guess I'm just going to have to give you your own copy. For your birthday. Your thirtieth birthday."

"Sammy …"

"January 24, 2009. One copy of _The Lord of the Rings_. I'll have you reading it yet."

There really wasn't any point arguing. Dean was _not_ going to let Sammy save him; the price was just too damn high. But if Sammy wanted to believe that Dean was going to be around in 2009, for the moment Dean would let him. Dean smiled over at his annoying, pain-in-his-ass, joy-of-his-life, light-of-his-world, little brother.

"Whatever, Samwise."

"Whatever, _Frodo_."

And the Impala roared on towards Bobby's.

_**The End**_


End file.
